


show me

by boleynqueens



Category: The Tudors (TV), Tudor History - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cunnilingus, F/M, Modern Era, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 00:57:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7145585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boleynqueens/pseuds/boleynqueens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're beautiful...show me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	show me

**Author's Note:**

> this is like...if whitehall verse henry and anne started to roleplay their hampton academy henry/anne personalities? ~when worlds collide~
> 
> anyways, plot bunny that resulted from a dream sequence in whitehall. could potentially be a spoiler? but more likely to just be an outtake. 
> 
> no one asked for it~ but i wrote it~ as is usually the case with my smut. oh well! hope you enjoy.
> 
> prequel/first time fic that is also fairly whitehall compliant, here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/7193351

> " _You went to Catholic school?" Henry asks, grinning._
> 
> _"Yes. I'm sure I've told you."_
> 
> _"No, I don't think so…tell me…do you still have the uniform, perchance?"_
> 
> _"Did I bring my high school uniform with me to college? Is that what you're asking?"_
> 
> _"Yes."_
> 
> _"No…I did not."_
> 
> _"Pity. You still have it, though, don't you? At home?" he asks, voice hopeful._
> 
> _"Yes…why do you-- oh my God," she says, rolling her eyes, she moves herself from his arms and turns around under the blankets and he spoons her from behind, the cotton of his shirt soft against her bare back, "you are such a boy."_
> 
> _"I am," he says, as she feels his laughter shake against her, "I'm so glad you noticed. That bodes well for me."_

* * *

Henry locks the front door of his apartment behind him, then takes off his suit jacket, throwing it over the couch.

He maneuvers his way through piles of magazines and textbooks and notebooks ( _they really need to organize those_ , he thinks, or _he_ needs to stop being such a sucker for wide-eyed kids doing school fundraising via catalog magazine subscriptions, one of the two… _probably both_ ) until he reaches the kitchen.

There's a bowl of cherries and strawberries, glistening with water, out on the island, so he assumes Anne is home (they're her favorite fruits). He takes a cut strawberry and pops it in his mouth before opening the fridge and pulling out a sparkling water.

"Hello."

Henry turns, mid sip, and half-chokes, the carbonation hurting his nose as it protests the hiccup.

"What do you think?" Anne asks, leaning against the doorway, tilting her head to the side, holding the hem of her green, plaid skirt in between her thumb and forefinger.

"I… _don't_ ," he says, setting the bottle down on the island staring at her as she walks over to him, "I have no…thoughts. _This_ ," he continues gesturing to her outfit, "has rendered my mind a blank slate, there is only…"

"Lust?" she teases, tugging at a green ribbon woven in her hair, leaning against the edge of the island, now.

"The…I thought you didn't have this with you," Henry says, smiling, flicking his index against the woven patch on her jacket, the inscription of _Savoy Academy_.

"I didn't," she says, with a shrug, "back then, anyways, and I thought I'd surprise you. Are you? Surprised?"

"I'm…floored."

"I _might'v_ e looked in my closet for it during Spring Break. At Hever house," Anne continues as he runs a hand over her waist, then a single finger down the row of buttons on the front of her shirt.

"Why don't you just say 'my house'? You're so _weird_ \--"

"It's _historic_. They used to give tours. Shut up," she says, and he laughs, rubbing the end of his nose against hers in an eskimo kiss.

"Weird and cute, is that better?"

"No," she grumbles, hands against his chest and he laughs, again.

Anne scowls, then grabs one of his hands, tugs it, and he follows her out the kitchen, trailing behind.

"Anyways," she continues, brightly, "role-play, yes?"

"The outfit seems to demand it," Henry agrees, "safety word?"

"Mmmm," Anne considers, taking a seat on their bed, tapping a finger against her dimpled chin.

He sits next to her and helps her shrugs her jacket off, walks over to the closet and hangs it for her. Anne leans her head back, the palms of her hands resting against the mattress, hums the _Jeopardy_ theme as she considers.

" _Anne_ ," he whines, dragging her name out to several syllables, sitting down on the bed next her and lifting her hair from the back of her neck and kissing it, " _please_ \--"

"I'm thinking! Hush," she says, giggling, she moves from the bed onto his lap and twines her arms around his neck, then, recalling a dream she had last night, asks, "what about…'Majesty'?"

"Um… _no_ ," Henry says, emitting a low chuckle as she kisses his cheek, "that would not would be wise."

"Why not?"

"Too much of a turn-on."

"Oh, _really_ ," she says, forehead resting against his, wriggling in his grasp, hands warm around her waist, even through the fabric of her button-down blouse, "then I suppose…." Anne trails off, runs a hand down the side of his face, feeling stubble, "'prince' is out of the question, too?"

"You're," he says, voice breathy as she laughs, " _mean_."

"Am I?" she asks, coyly, plays with the button of his slacks, but he grabs her wrist.

"No," he says, firmly, "don't."

"Oh," Anne stutters, face warming, "sorry, I thought--"

"No, no, don't be embarrassed," Henry reassures, framing her face with his hands, "I didn't mean to sound harsh, it's just…you wore this _for_ me, yes?"

"Yes?"

"So I think," he says, twirling a lock of her hair in his finger, gaze intent upon hers, "that this should be all about… _you_. _For_ you."

_Ah_. Well, she's certainly not going to argue with _that_.

"Noted. So…not 'prince', then? What about…'frog'? Minus the prince, since that's just _too_ much for you--"

"Fine," he says, curtly, lifts her from his lap and back onto their bed as she gasps in offense, "that'll do. Don't get huffy! I'll be right back."

* * *

Anne knows from previous experience that Henry's not really a typical role-player (at least, she doesn’t think so…he's the first boyfriend she's done this sort of thing with). He doesn't go over plot or anything with her (except for his knight fantasy…now _that_ was elaborate, a bit of a pain, really, all that Old English studying, as if she didn't have enough studying to do for her courses as it was, but the reward had been… _quite_ something), just sort of picks a track and starts, and she uses her instincts to follow along.

It's something akin to improv, usually. She feels out the vibe and she hasn't been wrong yet, nor has she ever needed to use the safety word; so far it's just been a precaution.

While she waits she opens their mini fridge, pulls out two bottles of Evian and sets them on the coasters on the nightstand (he's such a freak about 'condensation rings' and it's annoying but, honestly? she doesn't want the mood to be ruined).

Henry returns with his reading glasses folded onto the top of his button-down shirt, as well as highlighters in the front pockets. He holds a stack of textbooks in one hand, the bowl of cherries and strawberries she left in the kitchen on top of it, which she takes from him, setting the saucer (for pits) down on the nightstand.

Anne bites into one of the cherries and spits the pit out as he places her history textbook and various highlighters on the bed before taking a seat on the armchair.

She watches as he puts his glasses on, opens his econ textbook, and pops the cap of a highlighter.

He's… _reading?_

_Reading or "reading"_? _Is he…studying? Right now? For real?_

When she looks like… _this_?

It certainly looks that way, to her. She hopes it's part of the plot, but she follows along, lies down on her stomach on the bed, cracks open her own textbook and starts to read the assigned chapter for her class.

> _"The war is traditionally divided into four phases."_

Anne highlights the sentence, then begins highlighting the supposed phases of the Thirty Years' War (which is actually _not_ a misnomer, but thirty years in length, unlike the Hundred Years' War, otherwise known as, "hey, let's fuck with college students who are trying to write down a timeline in their notes for class and give a name to a war that lasted _over_ a century, _that'll_ be funny…"):

> _"The first, or Bohemian phase (1618-1625)…"_

"What are _you_ reading about, Boleyn?"

_'Boleyn'?_.

_Ah_ , it finally clicks for her. They're in "high school"...which makes sense, given that she's wearing her old high school uniform. And they're...friends, in this scenario? Or sort of friends. Friends that call each other by their last names. Friends with unresolved sexual tension, maybe.

Studying together. At his house, or hers…his, she decides, it's more realistic, even in a fictional world. It's not like _he_ r father would ever let them study unsupervised, he had a tape measure for the distance between chairs whenever some unfortunate boy was assigned to work with her for a school project.

"Thirty Years' War," she answers, "you?"

"World Trade Organization. Pass me that, yeah?"

"Pass you what?"

"The fruit, please."

"Get it yourself," she says, coolly, "I'm the one that quizzed you, remember?"

"And _I'm_ the one letting you stay here to study."

Anne rolls her eyes, then gets up and grabs the bowl before passing it to him.

"Hey," he says, putting the bowl down on the round table to the left of the armchair and plucking a stem from one of the cherries, "watch this."

"No," she says, grabbing a pillow and setting it down on the foot of the bed, she leans over it and continues to read:

> _"…was characterized by civil war in Bohemia between the Catholic League and the Protestant Union…"_

"Look."

"God, you're needy," she snaps, looking up from the text, she sees his palm held out, a green stem tied up in a bow.

" _Very_ pretty, Tudor," Anne says, reading her text again, "now, if you _don't_ mind, I'm still only on the first of four phases on this goddamn war, so…"

> _"In 1620, Catholic forces defeated Protestants at the White Mountain."_

"I did that with my tongue. Impressive, no?"

" _Sure_ you did."

"Well, you'd _know_ I had if you had _watched_."

"Mm-hmm."

"I am _very_ good with my mouth."

"Whatever you say," she says, airily, trying not to blush (since she knows from first-hand experience that he really… _is_ , but her character doesn't).

"Is that a _challenge_?"

Anne feels the heat of his stare, tries not to look up from the page, and fails. The intensity, the smoldering of his gaze cause her breath to catch in her throat.

"Maybe…although, I don't know how you would prove it," she continues, snapping the cap of her highlighter back on and biting the end of it.

"I could kiss you," Henry says, closing his textbook and setting it aside.

"We've kissed before," she says and he raises his eyebrows (whatever…she _hopes_ that if they went to high school together they'd have kissed! during 'seven minutes in heaven', if nothing else).

"I could kiss you… _elsewhere_ ," Henry clarifies, taking his glasses off and setting them atop the textbook on the table.

Her mouth feels dry, suddenly, so she closes her book and grabs one of the water bottles and takes a swig of it before answering.

"I…guess you could," she murmurs, batting her eyelashes. Now sitting on the edge of the bed, facing him, her legs hang over the side. She crosses them and feels the friction between them already, a result of his words; his casual sensuality.

"Did _he_ do that?" Henry asks, smirking, dragging his thumbnail over his lower lip as he stares at her.

"He…?"

"He was your first, right? Percy?"

It's the first time he's brought up a real-life ex in an invented scenario. His posture is stiff, lips pursed, and if he wants to be jealous and act it out...well, she's game. If he wants to be jealous of something, she'll invent something for him to be jealous about.

"He was," she answers, with a shrug, playing along, her heart thuds as she notices him bristle, the way his jaw clenches, how he yanks at a loose piece of hair behind his ear, "but no…he didn't do… _that_."

"What, he offered and you said no, or--"

"He didn't offer."

"He didn't go down on you first? For your first time?"

"No," Anne says, biting her lip, looking down at the Mary Jane's on her feet.

Henry is pinching the bridge of his nose in what looks like disdain, and huffs.

"Did it hurt?" he asks, genuine concern coloring his voice, voice wavering, and she forgets for a second that this isn't real, that her first time was with Henry, and that he had been incredibly gentle and, of _course_ , had gone down on her first.

Done an exquisitely long amount of foreplay, first, actually.

"Yes," she answers, voice small, ducking her head.

"What an asshole," he says, finally, "Jesus. This should be remedied. I'm offended by…him."

"Are you?" she asks, laughing, jiggling her foot.

"Yes! You should…you should experience it. If you want to, of course," Henry continues, tugging at his collar.

"I feel like if you…show me, you'll expect something else."

"What would I…oh. No. I don't have a condom here," he says, with such conviction that Anne forgets that they have a box in one of the cupboards in the bathroom counter, "so I wouldn't, anyways …and besides, I'm the one that's meeting a challenge. Not you."

"Will I like it?" she asks, playing with a ring on her hand.

"No guarantees in life, Boleyn, but _I'd_ bet on it. I've only ever gotten good reviews," Henry says smugly, and Anne feels a wave of jealousy wash over her because she's sure that is true, outside their characters. She remembers Lizzy Blount's words to her before Anne and Henry started dating, or flirting, even, ( _"he just knows what to do"_ ) and is overcome by possessiveness, wants to imprint herself in his memory more than anyone else ever has.

"Fine," she says, determinedly, starting to take her shoes off, "prove it, then."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Fine. Keep reading, then. Read aloud, if you'd like," Henry says, getting up from his chair.

Anne pouts, but does, lies back down on her stomach again and her calves are up in the air, swinging back and forth.

"'The second'," she reads aloud, hearing his footsteps, she stills her legs, puts them down on the comforter, only lifting one foot upwards, "'or Danish, phase of the war (1625-1629)…"

Anne feels him sit next to her on the bed, the words swimming in front of her eyes, she clears her throat, then shakes her head, as if that would clear it too, anticipation thrumming like a hummingbird buzz, keeps reading, "…so called because of the leadership of the Protestant king, _Christian_ …"

She gasps when she feels his hands under her skirt (although it remains over her backside, he hasn't flipped it up or anything), his fingers cool as they tug down the sides of her underwear, slowly.

"Christian what, Boleyn?" he asks, casually, as he pulls them down and over her knees.

"Christian…IV…of…Denmark," Anne reads, feels the fabric tickle her legs, through the delicate fabric of her thigh high stockings as he eases them downwards, further, "um…witnessed Catholic…"

"Turn around," he whispers, and she does, rolls over and he's gazing at her with the most tender expression, as if it's her first time for real (but she thinks it's genuine, too, the softness outside of the 'play').

Henry plays with her hair and she mumbles, "Catholic victories," before he leans down to kiss her, a kiss that feels like relief, arms pinned on either side of her.

Anne pushes the textbook off the bed with her free hand and it falls with to the floor with a heavy thud, the highlighters clatter against the wood, too.

Her arms are around his waist, now, and Henry maneuvers them so that they're both sitting upwards.

Anne scoots away from him, sits on the edge of the bed, and starts to try to roll the fabric down her legs.

Henry kneels on the floor and says, "No, keep them on. It's hot," rubbing a hand up and down her leg, fiddling with the ribbons woven in the sides of the thigh highs (green, to match the ones in her hair).

"Won't I get warm?" she asks, biting her lip.

"You might," he says, nodding, then sits on the edge of the bed with her, and she scoots back to the middle of it, as he follows, "you should lose the shirt. That'll help matters."

"I…"

Henry reaches out and untucks her blouse from the high waist of her skirt. They face each other, both on their knees on in the middle of the bed.

He brushes his fingers on the waist of her skirt, then on her stomach underneath her shirt, tracing circles. He unbuttons the bottom button of the blouse, then upwards, until it's just underneath her belly button. Anne blushes.

"Are you shy?" he asks, gently, "you don't strike me as someone that's shy, usually."

"About my lack of…yes."

"There doesn't appear to be a lack," Henry says, giving a pointed look to her chest, "and I'd like to see them. May I? Please?" he inquires, leaning down to kiss her stomach, pulling either side of her shirt apart to do so.

He pulls away when she giggles, brows raised. Henry crosses his arms, looking miffed.

"What? What's funny?" he asks, and she traces the tip of one reddening ear with her hand, he flinches to her touch and glares.

"You said 'please'...so _polite_. Just," she says, shrugging, "I think that's the first time I've ever heard you ask something nicely."

Henry's mouth drops open.

"I'm _polite_ ," he insists, affronted, nearly pouting.

"Not _really_ ," she says, pointedly, then mouths 'Boleyn, Tudor' as a reminder of the role-play.

"Well…I can be. I can be polite," he reiterates, then lies down on his side, and she joins him, but lies down on her back, looking at the ceiling, hands folded against her waist.

"I _can_ be," Henry continues, then moves down the length of the bed, of her, really, pulls the top of her left stocking down and kisses the bare skin there, feather-light, "and I'm pretty sure that by the end of this, _you're_ going to be the one saying 'please', Boleyn." 

"Is that a threat, or a promise?"

He's on top of her now, hoists himself up off the bed and pulls her to the edge of it and she laughs in surprise and delight as he kneels on the floor and settles himself in between her legs.

"You're not taking _your_ shirt off?" she asks, coyly, sitting upwards.

"No," he scoffs, "I'm not a _pervert_. God."

" _What_?"

"Nothing will be happening that requires _my_ undress," he elucidates, running both hands over the outer sides of her legs, "I thought we went over this. But, whatever: I'm nice, okay?"

"Oh?"

"I can be," he repeats, as he glides his hands up her legs again, all the way up to her hip bones, bare under her skirt, eyes never leaving hers as she gasps, "very nice."

Henry moves his hands from under to over her skirt, waist still in between her legs, he leans down and places his mouth against the small bit of her exposed stomach, smoothing his tongue against it, teasing and quick.

"I can be _very_ nice," Henry says, again when he pulls away, "may I show you? How nice I can be?"

Anne nods, slowly, and he grins before joining her on the bed again as they resume their previous position.

Henry undoes each remaining button on her shirt, slowly, appreciating each bit it reveals.

"I'm aging here...what's with the glacial pace, _Tudor_?"

"It's not a race, _Boleyn_ ," he teases, pausing to kiss her clavicle before he undoes another button, "it's about the journey, not the destination."

_Finally_ , she thinks, when he pushes the shirt off her shoulders, and he must sense her impatience because he gives her a testy look.

"I've never seen this before," he whispers, " _remember_?"

Anne nods, shifting her hips from side to side, takes a deep breath. She hasn't been nervous about being topless in front of him in a while, but the slowness of the undress and the way he looks at each new inch of skin bared makes her feel like this is the first time she's ever been…which is the point, she supposes. The fact that he's staying dressed heightens her nerves as well; something about the power imbalance of that, or maybe the self-control, the self-restraint it demonstrates on his part, is very attractive to her. 

"You're beautiful," he murmurs, lowering his eyes, he slides a hand over each cup of her bra and squeezes, gently, before withdrawing them, "show me."

She startles. He always wants to undress her; so this is new.

Given how impatient she feels (oh, God, it's like she's _heady_ with impatience) she has half a mind to yank it off, but he's set the pace. And she'll follow it, because that's the rules and…well, she can't deny it's a turn-on. Probably why he's chosen to slow the pace so much in the first place.

"Can I turn around first?" she asks, shyly, and he nods, pursing his lips.

Anne turns around, undoes the silky back of her bra, one hook at a time, knows he's watching as she slides each strap over her shoulder with what she's sure is a tantalizing slowness. Pulls it off entirely, drops it with one hand off the side of the bed, still turned away from him, a sobering, ' _now or never'_ feeling settling in the pit of her stomach.

"Touch me," she whispers, over her shoulder, "don't look yet, but-- _oh_!"

His hands palm her breasts from behind, he kisses her bare shoulder. She feels the silk of his button-down shirt against her back, smooth and luxurious. He draws a thumb over each nipple simultaneously, eliciting a moan from her.

Henry nuzzles her neck and whispers, "You're killing me."

"Good," she responds, "remember? You have to be _nice_."

"Still want me to go down on you?" he asks, snaking an arm around her waist from behind.

"Still breathing?" Anne quips.

"Thought so," he says, letting her go, and she turns around.

His eyes are dark, almost blown out, a deep grey and he lets out a ragged breath as he stares at her chest. Anne smiles, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, and runs a hand over it herself in a caress, sweeping the underside, trailing fingers against the top of her ribcage.

"Are you going to kiss me 'elsewhere', now?"

* * *

She's lying on the edge of the bed ( _for what better be the last goddamn time in this belligerent high school friends role-play, honestly_ ) and he's in between her legs, kneeling on the floor ( _ditto_ ).

"You look the _epitome_ of the naughty school girl right now. It's… _very_ nice."

"Uh huh."

"I appreciate it, is what I'm saying."

"The skirt and the thigh highs can stay, if that's what you're--"

"I'll ease you into it," Henry says, kissing a line up her thigh, "promise."

By the time he lays the first kiss onto her sex, gently, Anne feels like she's on the verge of falling apart already. Everything leading up to it has made the area…sensitive. The length of the wait has made the sensation of his tongue, cool as it curls against her, feel like the first time it ever did.

The first time is an awakening, she remembers, the realization that this is what she always tried to emulate with her hands and never could, that nothing will ever compare to it. Nothing will be the same as what someone's head between your thighs feels like, nothing will ever be close to feel of a kiss there, that you can imitate it but that the touch will never be the same.

"Oh, my _God_ ," she sighs, the muscles of her thighs contracting already, it's a struggle not to clench them tight around his head, "that's…I see why you get 'good reviews…'"

He runs his tongue up and down vertically, barely on the surface and she jolts, feels a single shake run through her, like the effect of sleep deprivation finally taking hold, or the way it feels when you wake or startle from a dream and get the falling sensation.

Next his mouth is on her clit in a closed mouth kiss, quickly, and she gasps, "Henry," _fuck this 'Tudor' noise, fuck 'role-play'_ , she feels like she's undulating and this part has barely even started, _what is this_ …

And now the way he moves his mouth between her thighs is open, passionate, not fast but not agonizingly slow, either, his hands, fisted in her school uniform skirt, tug in eagerness. She moans, arches her back closer into the touch, bites her hand but doesn't that doesn't stop them; the moans come out stuttering instead of long, instead, is all.

Her stomach tickles with warmth, a flush spreads and she yanks the comforter in each fist, shifts her back to the left and right, like she has a scratch on it that she can't itch.

His hands hold her waist, firmly in place as she shakes, and he stops kissing and _he stops kissing her there?!_ _Why?_

"Do you touch yourself?" he asks, curling his fingers against the surface of the top of her sex, his mouth glimmering with wetness, neck damp with sweat, too.

"What do you mean?" she stammers, legs trembling, though she tries to will them to stop.

"I mean," he continues, adding pressure to where his hand is, (gentle pressure, but pressure nonetheless), "when you're in bed, late at night, and you can't sleep…and your hands wander under your covers, stray downwards…do you touch yourself? Where I'm touching you now?"

"Yes," Anne whispers.

"And you moan into your pillow," he continues, as if she hadn't answered, he sucks two fingers on his right hand and replaces it with the left one that was against her, strokes her with curved bow of them, "...yes, just like that...when you moan into your pillow so no one hears, _pray_ no one hears, pray no one interrupts...who do you think about?"

"You," she answers, as his thumb brushes against her clit and she stutters out a gasp, "I think about…you."

"Me? Me doing what?"

"This."

"Well," Henry says, palming her center and staring at her, steadily, as he moves it in slight strokes, "now you'll have something real to remember, instead of dreams."

" _Asshole_ ," she hisses, and he shrugs, puts his head under her skirt again, skids his full mouth against her slit before pushing his tongue inside the folds and sucking before relenting the pressure and kissing the surface again. And again. And _again_...only to stop and leave, smooth, flickering touches instead, so light that they make her feel like she's melting against him.

Anne grasps his hair, the thick, reddish gold curls, trying to ground herself against the light feeling. She starts out stroking his hair and then ends up tugging it, hard, but he doesn't increase the pressure and Anne arches her back again, trying to increase friction, again, writhes, feels sweat trickle down her brow.

"You won, you're good with your mouth, you met the 'challenge'," she groans, chest heaving, she puts her hands over her face and whimpers, "please, please don't stop again, it's so good… please…please…oh my God, _please_ don't...stop..."

Henry increases the speed of the administration of the oral as her hips cant, upwards, every muscle increases in tension, until each one feels released, unanchored.

Anne closes her eyes, her inner thighs slip over his cheeks, slick. She feels like she's floating, hears "Anne?" as if it's coming from somewhere very far away.

* * *

"Anne's not here," she says, lightly, wriggling up to the head board, she puts her head over one of the pillows and breathes, deeply, through her nose, "this skirt is soaked. Get it off, will--"

But she already feels the zipper of her skirt being tugged down, pulled over her legs, she kicks them off and feels a sheet settle over her, rolls over and there's Henry.

She strokes the side of his face, taking in his bemused expression, rakes her fingers through his hair and says, idly, "too bad we didn't go to high school together, huh?"

"Yeah," he says, shoulders shaking with laughter as he unbuttons his shirt, kissing the tip of her nose, "too bad."

"Thank you," she murmurs, as he unties a ribbon from her hair.

"Thank _you_ for the everlasting image _,"_ he says, releasing the silky green hair-piece with a flourish, "of you, topless in a plaid skirt and thigh highs, writhing and begging to be touched."

"You're welcome, then," Anne says, rolling her thigh highs, now damp with sweat, down her legs, finally, and kicking them off the edge of the bed. 

"I'll take the sacred Catholic outfit to be dry cleaned, later, sweetheart."

" _Thank you_ , Your Majesty," she says, giggling.

"Stop trying to _murder me_ , Anne," he groans, blushing and covering his face with the sheet, he mumbles, "I'm far too tired for arousal right now."

"No."

"I'll call _you_ that next time," he growls, tickling her side under the sheet, as she laughs, inching away, tugging at his hand to stop him, "see how _you_ like it."

"I probably _would,_ " she counters, lifting his hand to her mouth and kissing it.

"Yeah, you probably would."

**Author's Note:**

> credit to a History of World Societies for the textbook quotes!
> 
> i'm going to hell, probably? oh well.
> 
> #worthit


End file.
